Or It's Gonna Go Down in Flames
by HermioneGirl96
Summary: A series of very short, disconnected Snowbaz drabbles based on the lyrics of Taylor Swift's "Blank Space."
1. Nice to Meet You, Where You Been?

**Disclaimer:** Rainbow Rowell owns the characters; Taylor Swift owns the lyrics.

 **A/N:** I've written a Taylor Swift songfic before, but doing one for _Carry On_ was inspired by morbidbookworm's "we are the kings and the queens." Check it out if you're into royalty AUs, or even if you're not. That fic will convince you.

 **SIMON**

I feel like my insides are going to burst out of my abdomen and wrap around my arms, but he is nowhere to be found. He. I think my roommate is going to be a he. Watford doesn't do co-ed rooms, does it? That would be gross. Ew. Living with a girl. I'd probably get cooties or something.

I scan the kids time and again, watching everyone else pair off, wondering where my other half is. Not _my other half_. I don't mean it like that. The other half of my pair. There. Better. (Except it's not better, because my insides still feel like they're going to come shooting out of me any second.)

Finally, I see him, strolling slowly toward me, looking cool as January. He's got dark hair that's slicked back from his greyish face, and he's wearing the best-fitting suit I've ever seen in my life. He seems to glide toward me rather than walk, and I stumble in his direction in response, feeling horribly underdressed in my ratty white T-shirt and jeans.

By the time we reach each other, my hand is already out in front of me. It has been for ages, even since before I saw him. But his hands are by his sides, and he keeps them there for several seconds while I feel like I'm about to turn inside out from whatever spell is on me. (There are spells. Like, for real. Isn't that weird? I still kind of think I'm dreaming.)

After what feels like hours, he finally raises his hand, and I grab it before it's fully in position and start shaking it immediately, because I can't stand it anymore.

"I'm Tyrannus Basilton Pitch III," he says, and I almost laugh. What kind of a name is that?

"I'm Simon Snow," I reply, and then we let go of each other's hands.

"The Mage's Heir," he says, like I don't know.

"Right."

Neither of us says, "Nice to meet you." I bite back my question of "Where have you been?" too, since I don't want to let on the way I felt like I was going to die before he finally showed up. We just stand there next to each other, not talking, while the Mage gives a "welcome to Watford" speech. And I wonder where on earth you even come from, to look like my new roommate does and wear a suit like that. He looks like no one I've ever met, and I can't stop staring, like I stared at the Mage when I met him earlier.

"Quit staring; it's rude," he says when the speech is over.

"I'll stare if I want," I return, shoving him.

My hand suddenly goes cold and tingly.

"Anathema," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"You can't hurt your roommate. There's an Anathema. Where did you grow up, under a rock?"

I look at the floor. "With Normals," I admit. He's bound to find out sooner or later.

He laughs coldly.


	2. I Could Show You Incredible Things

**Disclaimer: Everything worth owning belongs to Rainbow Rowell or Taylor Swift.**

 **BAZ**

I leave most of the showing-Snow-around to Bunce, of course, but there's plenty she's not around for. Just by virtue of being Snow's roommate, there's a lot of time when it's just him and me. Like the first time he sees a **Stay put** charm, which I naturally use on my hat even before anyone officially teaches it to us. Or like the time he spills smuggled hot chocolate on my trousers and I sort them out with a simple **Good as new**.

Snow practically eats out of my hand when I do a new spell around him, for all that we officially hate each other. "Wow," he says. Or, "Oh my God!" Or, "I didn't—I mean—how did you—what?"

"Use your words," I tell him when he stutters like that.

"Never mind," he usually growls. But once, when we're both very tired, he just breathes, "That was amazing."

It's fourth year, and I have no way of accounting for the tingling I feel when he says that to me. I wrack my brain to see if there's anything I might have done to set off the anathema recently, but I draw a blank. It takes until the following year, when I realize that I'm in love with him, to understand that I feel tingly when he looks at me like I've done something, well, magickal, because he's complimenting me and I can't handle it.

It's not me he's complimenting. Not really. It's _magic itself_ , and I just happen to be his window into magic every now and then, when we're in our room or Bunce is out of class sick. Snow thinks magic is so entrancing because he grew up without it, which has nothing to do with either of us. So really, neither do the compliments. They're just a result of him growing up with Normals and me being one of the first competent magicians he's come across.

That's not how it feels, though. It _feels_ like he's complimenting me. And it also makes me feel like I'm showing him something incredible, rather than something desperately ordinary that I've done nearly every day of my life since I was old enough to talk. My mother taught me spells—she taught as naturally as she made fire, almost—and so I've grown up doing magic, grown up with spell-weaving representing the intersection of the ordinary, the sacred, and the nostalgic. The ordinary, the sacred, and the nostalgic, but almost never the incredible. Not until Snow, anyway. And even though I'd never tell him, I'm almost grateful to him for showing me a new way to look at the power I've exercised for so long.

And then he goes off, and I think, _Snow, you fool, you could have shown me something more incredible than my magic all along._


	3. Magic, Madness, Heaven, Sin

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

Snow is kissing me. Everything is on fire and the world is ending and _Simon Snow is bloody kissing me_ and maybe I don't need to die anymore. His lips are warm—nothing to the heat all around me, the fire's hot roar of breath, but warm—and they feel better than I ever imagined them feeling and he tastes like sugar and butter and _Simon Snow is bloody kissing me Aleister almighty_.

We put out the fire and my momentary madness with it, and then Snow bloody _finds me a deer_. When I make it back to the car, my joke about performing an evil ritual falls flat, and all I can think of when Snow doesn't laugh is _sin_. Which part does Snow think might have been Satanic? The kissing? The helping me feed? The gay part? The vampire part? Which part of me is he now rejecting? Does he feel dirty, _wrong_? Is it my fault? Does he wish he could undo what we just did? Does he feel like he hardly knows himself anymore? ( _I_ feel like I hardly know myself anymore. My mother died killing vampires—and I just had my first kiss.)

For all that in some ways we barely know each other at all (is he gay?), in some ways we know each other better than anyone. So he sees through my attempts at banter, sees how fast my mind is working and how much self-loathing there is beneath the surface, and says, "Don't."

"What?" I ask.

"Think. Whatever you're thinking. Stop."

And I start to unwind, start to relax, just a little, and let myself be with him. Be with the boy I've wanted to be with for nearly my entire adolescence.

We make it to the house, and I get us some food, because I know it's possible to prolong any encounter with Snow if you offer him food, and I never want this to end. We talk and we laugh and it feels almost _normal_ , like we could be friends or something, and it's the most magical thing I've ever experienced in my whole life, even more so than the first kiss, because there's something pure about this. There's no desperation. I don't have to wonder if he's just doing this to save my life. Either of us could terminate the encounter. And neither of us does.

I don't bank on him wanting to kiss me again. That would be too much to ask. But somehow he does, and his mouth is on mine, and I don't know if this is earth or heaven, sin or salvation, or if any of that is even real. He got rid of his cross, which means . . . something. Maybe it means that he's not judging me as evil anymore. That would be nice.

We kiss and we kiss and we kiss, until dawn starts peeping through the curtains, and then he falls asleep in my arms, which is madness even beyond what's normal for him, and oh is it ever magical.


	4. Saw You There and I Thought, Oh My God

**Disclaimer: Rainbow Rowell owns the characters; Taylor Swift owns the lyrics.**

 **SIMON**

Okay, so maybe I've known for a while that Agatha has a secret crush on Baz. Maybe it's been clear from the way her eyes follow him every time they're in the same room, from the way she blushes whenever he looks at her, from the way she sticks up for him when I insist he's being evil. Maybe it's been obvious for years at this point. But still. I didn't expect to see her actually _holding his hands_ , right there for anyone to see. Okay, maybe not _right there for anyone to see_. The Wavering Wood isn't necessarily _public_. But you know what I mean. She's _holding his hands_. Both of them. Like they're in a bloody musical.

I want to say something so badly, but, as usual, I don't know what. Just when I'm about to start talking anyway, Penny grabs my arm and whispers, "Simon, shh. Don't."

Penny grabbing my arm is totally different than Baz holding Agatha's hands, by the way. Penny's just doing it to get my attention. Things are totally platonic between us. And we're _friends._ This is _normal_. Baz and Agatha are not friends. They don't talk. This can't be platonic because there's nothing between them _at all_ for the word platonic to even _apply to_.

The thought of the two of them makes me sick to my stomach. I've wanted Agatha since before I knew what it meant to _want_. Since I thought all that entailed was butterflies in my stomach, not the full-body yearning I've learned that want is when you get older. I've wanted Agatha's platinum blond hair and her willowy figure and her pink lips and her big, bright eyes and her rosy cheeks and her delicate fingers and just _her_ , since second year at least.

And now she's holding Baz's hands and _oh my God_. What if things between us are over? What will I even do? If you don't pair off at Watford, you're stuck going on singles tours of magickal Britain at the age of thirty-four. At least, that's what Penny says, and Penny's always right.

People who don't know us very well would say Penny and I should just get together. But that would be so wrong. She's practically my sister. And besides, I'm in love with Agatha. I can't just shut that down overnight. I don't know if I can shut it down _at all_. Not when she's been all I've wanted for years. Not when she's the only girl I've ever been in love with.

All of these thoughts flash through my head in a few short seconds. Baz and Agatha are barely moving. I think they're whispering to each other, but I can't hear them. They're mostly just looking into each other's eyes. I turn to Penny, ready to ask why she shushed me and what she thinks I should do, when suddenly I feel a tug, and then the whole world is spinning.

Suddenly I'm not at Watford anymore.


	5. You Look Like My Next Mistake

**Disclaimer: Rainbow Rowell. Taylor Swift. Not me.**

 **BAZ**

I don't make mistakes. I'm the best student in my year, one of the best magicians Watford has ever seen. I'm an excellent football player and a skilled violinist and a talented fire-weaver, and I'm beyond good at magic. I don't make mistakes.

Or: all I do is make mistakes. I don't dodge the vampires fast enough. I don't distract them from my mother. And I don't avoid falling for my screw-up of a roommate, and goodness knows only a failure would fall for someone that utterly useless. The worst Chosen One who's ever been chosen.

He's not even that good-looking. His eyes are an ordinary blue and a bit pouchy; he has so many moles that no ordinary person would be able to stand it, but all those moles just make me want to kiss him. Kiss him everywhere. Merlin and Morgana, I am so far gone.

It's torture sharing a room with him. Luckily he changes in the bathroom and doesn't walk around the room in a towel, but he still looks adorable in his pyjamas. He still makes me want to hold him every time he gets sick. He still looks so kissable every time he growls at me. He still gets so frustrated when we have a lot of reading for homework that I want to read to him, just so he can stop struggling with the words for a minute.

I don't do any of it, of course. I sneer and snarl and give better than I get when we insult each other. (He's no match for me when it comes to words. He's pathetic, really. Which makes me want to hug him more often than it should. But I never do.)

I have immaculate self-control when it comes to the physical side of things. I can avoid hugging him and kissing him and pinning him to the wall every day for years, no problem. But when it comes to the mental side? When my goal is to avoid _thinking_ about him, pining, fantasizing? No dice.

The things I could do to that mouth. The ways I could thread my fingers through that hair. The angles from which I could kiss those moles. The ways I could caress that skin. Oh, Merlin, I want.

After the near-disaster that is fifth year, I don't feel like I'm actually in danger of making a mistake again until I come back practically from the dead eighth year. And then my self-control is nearly as shot as the rest of me. Not quite, of course, or I'd have lunged at Snow and kissed him the second I saw him, but close. When I come back from the woods or the catacombs at night and he's asleep, I hover over him tracing his moles with my finger a mere inch from his face. When I argue with him, I step forward until we're almost nose-to-nose and only barely restrain myself from kissing him. When I shove him, I almost let my hands linger.

I don't, of course. I never slip, not when it counts. But Merlin, does he look like my next mistake.


	6. Love's a Game, Wanna Play?

**Disclaimer: The characters are Rainbow Rowell's; the lyrics are Taylor Swift's.**

 **BAZ**

I think of a million ways to ask Snow out. Each worse than the last.

"Be my boyfriend."

"Wouldn't loving be better than fighting?"

"I'd rather kiss than fight; how about you?"

"I don't actually hate you. Go out with me?"

"You're gorgeous. Let's kiss."

"Love's a game; wanna play?'

Yeah, no. No, nay, never. I can't ask Snow out. It would ruin my reputation for being tough, suave, elegant—anything I'm interested in being.

It's so hard not to want, though. So hard not to imagine what would happen if he said yes. So hard not to picture my lips against his and my fingers in his hair and my hands holding his. So, so hard.

Once in a while, I let myself imagine it. Not just the asking him out, but the afterward. Both of us wearing suits and shiny shoes and going dancing. Holding hands and walking into a restaurant and not caring how many people stare at us. (Sometimes I even imagine, ludicrously, that no one would stare. Or that they'd only stare because we're so good-looking, not because we're gay. But I know that's a pipe dream. And Snow isn't gay.)

I imagine us fighting the Humdrum side by side and shoulder to shoulder, both of us bent on destroying true evil and both better together than we are separately. (That last bit is ridiculous. I'm best alone, and Snow doesn't get better or worse; he's just terrible.) In my imagination, we protect each other because we're skilled and because we care about each other, neither of which is true in Snow's case, I know.

I imagine us stargazing, lying in the grass next to each other, feeling the individual blades tickle our necks as we crush thousands more blades with the rest of our bodies. In my mind's eye, I see us, my right side pressed up against his left, gazing up at a clear and cloudless sky, easily spotting Orion and Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper and the Pleiades and all the other constellations my mother taught me to name. And then rolling over onto our sides to face each other so I can trace Snow's constellations of moles gently with my fingertips or perhaps my lips.

I imagine domesticity, as though the idea of living together were something exciting rather than something mind-numbingly mundane. I picture us cooking together and cleaning together and swapping backrubs at the end of hard days. I envision greeting Snow at the door when he gets home from work or school, or him greeting me, the smell of cooking dinner wafting through the door as though Snow would ever be able to cook something without burning it.

And then I loop back to imagining asking him out. "Hey, Snow, wanna date?"

No.

"If I said I didn't hate you . . ."

No.

"Love's a game; wanna play?"

No.

Forget it.


	7. Old Money, Suit and Tie

**Disclaimer: Rainbow Rowell. Taylor Swift. Not me.**

 **SIMON**

What kind of eleven-year-old wears a suit and tie? I mean, anyone with a public school uniform, obviously, but outside of school, on just a regular day?

It only gets worse as we get older. The year we're fifteen, Baz shows up at Watford for the year in a black suit with tails and a black tie, like he's attending a royal ball or something. He treats everyday life like he got an embossed invitation. I suppose I treat life like my invitation got lost in the mail.

And I know Baz is old money, but even so I'm shocked when I show up at his family's house. A single family lives here? The thing could take up an entire city block! And everything seems to be engraved with gargoyles or lions or whatever. Absolutely everything is fancy, from the ridiculously complicated Japanese toilets to Baz's four-poster bed to the wall sconces lighting the hallways.

What confuses me most about my visit to Baz's house is that Baz is wearing jeans. They do fit really well, and they look expensive, but even so it's weird to see him out of a suit and tie. I mean, I've seen him in pyjamas. I know he doesn't literally _always_ wear a suit and tie. But that does seem to be how he spends most of his waking hours, and it's throwing me to see him in anything else.

Baz dresses back up before we go looking for the vampires, which calms me down. We may be about to hunt down creatures who are literally hungry for my blood, but at least my roommate (that's how I should describe him, right? "Roommate"? We're not friends . . . ) is wearing what I expect him to wear.

He looks good, I have to admit. He's got his hair slicked back, and I wish he'd leave it down, but even so I can appreciate its lazy wave. And somehow dressing in monochrome works well for him, like his black suit and grey skin make it plausible that he just stepped out of a black-and-white movie and it's the rest of us who are wrong, for being in colour.

It's not until we meet Nicodemus that I realize how good Baz makes his suits look. Like, yes, suits look good on just about anyone, but Nicodemus is wearing a suit, and he looks worn out and desperate. Baz, by contrast, looks like a prince. Part of this is just that there are stitches popped in Nicodemus's suit, but part of it isn't. Part of it is that Baz. Looks. Good.

I don't tell him this at the time because he's on a mission and I'm the possibly ill-advised backup, for all that I was the one who found out who Nicodemus is. But I do tell him, late that night, while we're lazing on his floor.

"Baz?"

"Yeah?"

"You look good in a suit."


	8. I Can Read You Like a Magazine

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **BAZ**

"I just—it's—I mean—I . . ."

"Use your words, Snow."

It's an exchange we've had a thousand times. The next part is new, though: "I can't! I bloody can't make my words come when I want them and it's not bloody fair of you to—to—to—to act like this is funny or it's some sort of choice I'm making or—or—"

"You're an idiot, Snow," I say, cutting him off.

It's not until we've been together for months that I realize how much hurt I caused with those words.

"Baz," says Snow one night, just as I'm starting to fall asleep. "Do you—do you still think I'm an idiot?"

I don't like the quiver in his tone, so I decide on a joke to try to lighten things up. "Depends on the day of the week."

He shoves his face in the crook of my neck and lets out a sob. I wrap my arms around him instantly, cursing myself. "Simon, Simon, that was a joke," I murmur. "Of course I don't think you're an idiot. What gave you that idea?"

"You used to call me that all the—all the time time. Especially when I couldn't—couldn't talk," Snow cries.

I nuzzle his head with my face, burying my nose in his hair. "Oh, Simon, I'm sorry."

"But do you still think . . . ?"

"Simon, _no_ ," I assure him. "You defeated the Humdrum. You've successfully transitioned to a Normal university. You're doing brilliantly in your maths class. Of _course_ I don't think you're an idiot."

"It's just that I do—I mean, I sometimes—I still sometimes have trouble talking," he says through his tears. "And every time I have to wonder if you—if you—if you still think I'm stupid."

I hold onto him as tightly as I can. "I'm sorry."

"But what kind of person can't manage to talk properly, anyway? Only an idiot, right?"

"Simon," I say. I'm making sure to use his first name a lot because I know it makes him happy. I save it so that I can use it to cheer him up. "You had a hard childhood. Who could expect you to learn to talk properly if no one was talking to _you_? I had my mother cooing over me all the time, taking care of me, making me a priority. You had none of that. It's a wonder you wound up as functional as you did."

"But what if it hurts _us_?" Simon asks, catching me off-guard.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, they always say communication is really important in a relationship. And if I can't do that . . ."

"Snow," I say, exasperated enough by the question to switch back to his last name. "I lived with you for eight years. I can read you like a magazine. Even when you can't get the words out, I know what you mean."

"What about misunderstandings?"

"We've made it this far, haven't we?" I ask, though really he makes a good point. If other couples can miscommunicate with words, what's to stop us from miscommunicating without them? I did manage to miss him being bi for years . . . "Have a little faith," I say, though without as much conviction as one might hope for.

Snow, however, yawns and nuzzles into me. "If you say so, Baz," he says, lips brushing my collarbone. He falls asleep right there in my arms.


	9. Ain't It Funny? Rumors Fly

**Disclaimer: The song is still Taylor Swift's, and the characters are still Rainbow Rowell's.**

 **BAZ**

I'm never sure what to expect when I think about coming out to Dev and Niall. On the one hand, their families are conservative, like mine; they believe in the old order, where only humans were allowed at Watford and spells relied on Shakespeare, not Queen lyrics. But on the other hand, I think Dev and Niall genuinely like me. It's hard to tell, because we're all so sarcastic and standoffish, but Dev told me about his crush on Wellbelove and I was the one Niall came to when his cat died. So I think we're genuinely friends. Not, of course, that coming out couldn't change that . . .

Still, I don't expect any major problems. All three of us love to project a bored, unflappable image, and getting riled up about my sexual orientation would require losing some unflappability. So I'm really not anticipating waking up to a phone full of texts the morning after I dance with Simon at the Leavers' Ball. But that's exactly what happens.

 _Dev (12:47 am): why were you dancing with our sworn enemy last night?_

 _Dev (12:48 am): i mean, i know you two worked together to stop the Humdrum, but seriously, wth?_

 _Dev (12:52 am): wait, are you gay?_

 _Dev (12:54 am): don't be gay_

 _Dev (12:55 am): that would be disgusting_

 _Niall (1:14 am): dev just told me u might be gay_

 _Niall (1:14 am): gorss_

 _Niall (1:15 am): *gross_

 _Niall (1:17 am): i always thought u liked wellbelove_

 _Niall (1:19 am): who would like simon snow anyway?_

 _Niall (1:20 am): he's such an idiot_

 _Dev (2:49 am): don't be gay, that would make me second-guess everything we've ever done, don't ruin my memories like that_

I miss Watford, I think somewhat irrationally. Merlin knows Watford can't fix everything, but it could probably fix this, or at least shield me from it for a while. I could avoid being alone with Dev and Niall, and I know they'd keep up appearances in public, and we'd all pretend everything was fine and I wouldn't have to hear their ugly homophobia. But I'm not at Watford; I'm in Oxford at my family's second home (since Simon burned the first to the ground), in my own bedroom that I do not share with Simon, and my two best friends can take refuge in the distance of text to harass me from afar.

I text them both back, the same message:

 _Baz (8:53 am): Yes, I am gay. It's not something I chose. You can be friends with me or not, but I'm going to keep being gay._

Then I text Simon:

 _Baz (8:56 am): Dev and Niall are surprisingly homophobic. :(_

Neither Dev nor Niall responds promptly; given the timestamps on their texts, they might still be sleeping. Simon, however, gets right back to me:

 _Simon (8:57 am): i'm sorry darling. :( can i help?_

He really calls me that ("darling"), ever since I mentioned having fantasies about it. Today, it reminds me that he's worth it, even if I lose friends from being with him.


	10. And I Know You Heard about Me

**Disclaimer: Taylor Swift and Rainbow Rowell own the things worth owning here.**

 **BAZ**

I'm going to Watford. I'm going _back_ to Watford. I'm going back to where I grew up, before the vampires came and took my mother away from me. Back to where I played for hours in the nursery behind the heavy wooden door engraved with characters from folk tales. Back to where my mother snuck me sweets and let me read the books on her shelves. Father says the nursery isn't there anymore and I won't be allowed in my mother's study.

I'm still excited.

It's three days before I leave when I'm coming downstairs for breakfast and pause on the stairs when I hear my father and stepmother's voices. "Don't be ridiculous, Malcolm," my stepmother is saying. "The Mage's Heir will only be a child. He can't be a threat to Basil."

"I put _nothing_ past that man," my father replies. "Planting an ultra-powerful mageling within striking distance of the heir to the Grimm-Pitch line is exactly the sort of thing he would do."

My stepmother sighs. "It always comes back to Natasha, doesn't it." It isn't a question.

"Yes," my father says. "When it has to do with Watford, it does. That was _her place_ , Daphne, not mine or yours."

"We went there too," my stepmother insists.

"Yes, but she ran the place. And couldn't you always tell she would? Even as a student she carried herself like she would be in charge someday."

"You're still in love with her." Again, not a question.

My father sighed. "Daphne, you know this. There's nothing to prevent me from loving a living woman and a dead woman at the same time."

"That doesn't mean I have to like coming in second," my stepmother muttered.

"To the greatest headmistress Watford has ever seen?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Malcolm."

My stepmother sweeps out of the room just then, wiping at her eyes, all angles in her pantsuit, so much slighter than my solidly built mother. She's been the woman in my life for two years now and she's still all wrong. I told her that, right at the beginning, when I was about to turn nine, and I made her cry. I've learned to be nicer to her by now, and most of the time I appreciate her; she drives me to violin lessons, after all. But she's not my mother and she never will be.

Now that I won't be interrupting anything, I let myself into the breakfast room and help myself to food. My father is sitting at the head of the table reading _The Record._ I don't ask him about the Mage's Heir, but after breakfast I head to the library, where all our old copies of _The Record_ are kept, and I look in the most recent ones for mentions of the Mage naming an heir.

I find an article on the topic in the second copy I check. With the article, there's a picture of a boy covered in moles. It's black and white, so I can't tell what colour his curly hair is. The caption says, _The Mage named Simon Snow, age 11, his heir. Snow will be starting at Watford this fall._

The boy is kind of cute, and, in this picture, he could be a vampire, just like me. In black and white for real.

I try not to get my hopes up.


	11. So Hey, Let's Be Friends

**Disclaimer: You've got it by now, right? Not mine.**

 **SIMON**

For all that we're enemies and I hate him, I can't quite find it in me to dislike him when I see him crumble at the sight of that photograph. The Baz I know and love—that's just an expression; obviously I _actually_ mean know and _hate_ —is strong, tall, and haughty. He'd give me a cool once-over and curl his lip and sneer at me. This year's Baz is jumpy, exhausted, and haunted. He still gives me a once-over and curls his lip at me and sneers, but his gaze isn't cool anymore. At best, he's going through the motions, and, at worst, he's searching for something. It makes me feel like a disappointment in a whole new way; instead of being amused at my failures, he looks at me like he had skin in my game, and my losing is dragging him down with me.

I keep catching myself stepping closer to him, aching to hug him. This confuses me. I don't hug Penny on a regular basis, and, this year, I don't hug Agatha either. I used to hug Agatha, back when things were going better. So yeah, wanting to hug Baz is confusing. But he just doesn't seem as much like a nemesis this year. He's so . . . tired.

And his mother still loves him, from somewhere beyond the Veil. I must admit that it's the first time it's ever occurred to me that someone loves Baz. I mean, I guess I always assumed his father and stepmother loved him. I hope they do. Everyone deserves to be loved, even evil vampires.

I think about all of this while I wait for Baz to get back for the night. Part of my mind is still on Penny, since she burst in, but mostly I'm thinking about Baz and his mother. Part of me is jealous that he has a living parent, plus a dead parent who bothered to come back for him, but mostly I want to help him find out the truth about his mother's death. I don't have a great reason for that—the best I can come up with is that I'm angry that the vampires breached the sanctity of Watford—but I want it nonetheless.

Baz is the one who suggests a truce, but I like it, especially when he throws in the clause about no acts of aggression until we know the truth. A large part of me doesn't expect Baz to stick to the terms—since when has he ever given up an opportunity to hurt me?—but I'm excited for the possibility to explore the feeling of sympathy I have toward him without feeling like I'm failing at my duty to make his life miserable. To help him for once, rather than glorying in the bags under his eyes and the limp in his step.

I hesitate when I'm supposed to say, "Truce," back to him because part of me wants to say, "Friends?"


	12. I'm Dying to See How This One Ends

**Disclaimer: Taylor Swift. Rainbow Rowell. The end.**

 **A/N: Merry Christmas, if you celebrate it!**

 **BAZ**

I grow up with the knowledge that I'm both dead and immortal. For all that it's normal for me, I'm pretty sure it's bizarre. At least, I think so. I don't exactly have firsthand experience _not_ growing up like that, at least not since I was five, but I can guess. At the very least, my condition makes expressions like "I'm dying to find out" into inside jokes with people who know, or inside jokes with myself when I'm around people who don't know. Fiona and I love to misuse the word "die" around each other, though sometimes I see sadness rather than mirth behind her eyes.

Almost as soon as I meet Snow, I know we'll be the death of each other. He hates me from the first, I think because I come from money and he clearly doesn't have any. And I hate him, for being special and loved without doing anything to deserve it. I should stay out of his way, for my own sake, but I'm a moth to his flame. Always stepping too close. Waiting to get burned to a crisp.

I'm dying to know how things will end between us. And I do mean literally dying. I risk my life on a regular basis to endanger him—the incident with the chimera comes instantly to mind—and I don't know how many more times I can do that before I get burned. And if I get burned I'll go up like grease paper. It's my job to kill him, of course—to rid the world of that infuriating face and that voice that works its way under my skin and into my heart and altogether the disaster that is Simon Snow—but I might just be the one who winds up dead.

I stay up at night thinking about how to kill him. I think about it as I roam the catacombs or the Wavering Wood. Hell, I even think about it in lessons and at football practice. I go over the spells I could use— **Dead in the air** , **Dead as a doornail** , **Six feet under** —and try to find the conviction I would need to make them work. That's the hard part, wanting it. At least, it is with Snow. Because I'm in love with him.

Which is why my thoughts and fantasies sometimes tend in a different direction. I picture myself trying to kill him only to wind up kissing him at the last moment. I picture _him_ kissing _me_ , Merlin knows why. I picture love confessions and not-so-accidental brushes of hands and everything in between. Could it end that way? Could we become boyfriends instead of enemies? I don't know. But I'm dying to find out. And I do mean literally dying.


	13. Grab Your Passport and My Hand

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **SIMON**

We've joked about it plenty, but I never thought we were really going to do it. Until the day Baz says, "Snow, do you really think you could fly us to Paris?"

I pull up a map on my phone. Sue me, but I don't know the distance to Paris offhand. I study the map for a bit, comparing the distance between Paris and London and the distance between Oxford and London. I've flown the latter distance, alone, and I had to sleep for about fourteen hours afterward, so I think it's a good gauge of my absolute limit. Paris is further than Oxford, but I zoom in on the English Channel, the bit between Canterbury and Calais, and I think maybe I could make it. I tell Baz so.

"I could help," he replies. "I could use **Light as a feather** and **Up, up, and away** and maybe even **On love's light wings** again. That would make it easier, don't you think?"

"Probably," I agree.

"How's this weekend?" he asks.

"Seriously?" I reply.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Because this is crazy!" I respond.

"Why?" he returns. "It's not like I'm asking you to fly us to America."

"Still. International travel? What am I, Snow Airlines?"

"Just for me," Baz says.

It makes me want to kiss him, and Penny isn't home yet, so I do. "All right, you cheesy tosser. I'll fly you to France."

We plan throughout the week: We'll get up early Saturday morning and take the train from London to Canterbury, and then at Canterbury we'll find somewhere secluded so that Baz can spell us invisible and light, and then I'll fly us across the Channel and we'll find a train on the other side to take us to Paris. This last bit will be possible only because Baz speaks French. Left to my own devices, I'd be completely lost in France. We don't need our passports, since Brexit hasn't been finalized yet, but we decide we'll bring them anyway because trouble has been known to find me.

I don't believe we're going to actually do it right up until the moment that we show up at King's Cross bloody early and buy our tickets to Canterbury. And then we're being whisked through the suburbs and across the countryside, and I have to confront the fact that this is really happening.

"If you lose your nerve, we can always take the Chunnel," says Baz, I think because he sees how nervous I am.

"No, I can do this," I tell him.

And then suddenly we're behind the train station in Canterbury and Baz has his wand out. He spells us invisible and disappears right before my eyes.

"Where are you, Snow?" he asks.

"Here," I say.

" **Light as a feather** ," he casts, presumably on both of us. I suddenly feel like I'm going to float away.

I reach forward until my hands run into him, and then I pull him into a hug. "I think this is going to work best," I say, and I begin to beat my wings.

It's an awkward position to hold for a long time, and the headwind on the Channel is wicked, but Baz keeps whispering, "You can do it. I believe in you," and I make it to the beach before falling out of the sky. We drift downward slowly when I stop flapping, and then we crash into the beach and my lips find his even though I can't see him.

He doesn't spell us visible for another hour.


	14. I Can Make the Bad Boys Good

**Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.**

 **SIMON**

I don't know what I expected. A normal house? Baz in his Watford uniform? (Come on, Simon, he doesn't even wear those on the weekends.) Nondescript poshness that didn't involve gargoyles? I don't know. I didn't really _think_. (I never think.) I guess I just . . . wasn't expecting _this_.

I definitely wasn't expecting Baz to admit he's a vampire, or the kissing. Especially not the kissing. Not that I mind. Not at all. It's nice. Really nice, actually. Just unexpected.

I actually love the feeling of kissing Baz. Not just because his lips feel nice, although there is definitely that. (Also his tongue. That's nice too. More than nice.) No, what I love is the sense of having him under my thumb (or I guess under my mouth). The sense that I'm in control and he's not going to hurt me (or himself).

I let him take control sometimes too. A show of unbelievable trust given our history. It actually works well; when he positions himself above me, I reach up for his mouth, and I think he loves it. I'm pretty sure I would. That sense of power, and being sure the other person is just as enthusiastic as you are.

But the best part of kissing him is definitely knowing that I'm safe for a while, at least from him. (I suppose the Humdrum could still summon me away, but I try not to think about that.) Baz seems distracted enough by kisses that I'm quite sure he won't hurt me while our lips are locked. This feels like an improvement over our usual situation.

I don't know how to classify Baz. I'm used to thinking of him as evil, but I'm pretty sure now that that's not right. Is he a "bad boy"? He's certainly got the tough, silent aura down, but I get the sense that bad boys are supposed to be gritty, and Baz is just too posh for that. Still, he's definitely not _good_. Right? Except . . . maybe he is. He's helping me defeat the Humdrum, after all. At least, I'm pretty sure he's helping, and not just trying to trick me into thinking he is.

But if he's not evil now, does that mean he wasn't evil? Or was he evil until recently, and then . . . and then _what_? And then I offered to help him find out who killed his mother? And then I kissed him? Is this _my_ doing? Did I make him good? Is that even possible?

I try not to think about it. I try to focus on kissing him.

And then everything goes up in flames.


	15. So It's Gonna Be Forever

**Disclaimer: The lyrics are Taylor Swift's; the characters are Rainbow Rowell's.**

 **SIMON**

I've been nervous for weeks, ever since I bought the ring, and Baz is getting suspicious. Especially because I've made reservations at that restaurant he practically drools over every time we pass it. Baz knows that I never make reservations because I never think ahead, but everything has to be perfect for this. I'm a terrible boyfriend, but for once I'm determined to get things right.

I get dressed while Baz is in the bathroom, so that I can take the small box out of the dresser and slip it into my pocket. Baz doesn't even officially live here, so it shouldn't be hard to get a moment without him, but he wasn't kidding about haunting my door. Our door. My and Penny's door. Because of me.

I'm so pleased about how the past two years have gone: how Baz and Penny have become friends, how I've turned out to be good at maths, how I've learned to function without magic better than I ever functioned with it, how Baz and I have remained a couple. And now I want to make things permanent. Or acknowledge that they already practically are. (So it doesn't make sense for me to be nervous. He's going to say yes. But Baz says I don't make sense, so.)

I survive the restaurant, which is much more Baz's scene than mine (I'd somehow made it to age twenty without knowing that hors d'oeuvres was spelled like that). And then I suggest a walk. That's more my thing than Baz's, since he does plenty of walking while he hunts and doesn't consider it an activity people ought to do for fun, but he humours me, I think because he knows how much I love seeing the city at night. Which I do. That just isn't the point this time.

I take him from the City of London to the City of Westminster, which for all intents and purposes is still a part of London (unless you're the queen; then there are special rules). We walk to the Parliament buildings and through the park that lays at their feet. I stop in front of the Rodin sculpture of the condemned men, which, according to Baz, is the only worthy piece of statuary in the entire park. (That always sets Penny off, since there's also a statue of a famous, pioneering woman in that park, though I never remember whether it's Emmeline Pankhurst or whether she's in Bloomsbury or Russell Square with Virginia Woolf.)

I fumble in my pocket for the box, have trouble drawing it out, nearly drop it, manage to hold onto it, and sink to one knee. "Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, will you marry me?" I ask breathily. I sound nervous even to myself.

Are those _tears_ in Baz's eyes? Impossible.

He tugs me to my feet and pulls me into a hug. "Yes, yes, yes. Of course I'll marry you. Thank you, Simon, thank you," he murmurs into my ear.


	16. Or It's Gonna Go Down in Flames

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

I first made fire when I was four. It was an accident—another kid in the Watford nursery took the toy rabbit I was playing with, and I wanted to burn him, and all of a sudden there was fire in my hands. The teachers panicked and called in my mother, who took me to her office and sat me on her desk and gave me a very serious talking-to about not hurting people just because they made me upset. (I did a terrible job of following that rule in the subsequent years; I'm aware of that.)

But, when my mother was done telling me not to hurt people, she promised to teach me to use fire when I got a little older. She died before she could properly start on that—I guess five was still too young, which makes sense now that I think about it; I shudder to think of the twins running around casting flames—but my father took up that mantle when I turned eight. He's not nearly as good of a teacher as my mother was, but he's still a fire worker, and I can learn from just about anybody.

I learned about fire on another level when I met Snow, though. I already knew what it was to work with fire, but I'd never looked at fire from the point of view of a moth before. I'd never been _drawn_ to it. But Snow is the sun. And I knew almost as soon as I met him, as if the knowledge had been waiting for me ever since I saw my mother die, that our acquaintance and my life would both end in flames.

For a while, I waited for him to light a match and throw it in my direction. It would be so easy to get rid of me, and he could probably even pass it off as an accident. Eventually, I realized that that wouldn't be Snow's style. He has grand ideas about fairness and what it means to be a gentleman. (I don't know where he got those from—the care homes or the Wellbeloves or the Mage. It wasn't the Bunces; I'm pretty sure about that.) Snow wants to face me in a fair fight and win; I'm not sure he would let himself kill me, otherwise.

Now Snow doesn't have to do anything but watch me die, though, I think as I cast fire at the trees all around me. After years of disobeying my mother, I can finally do what she would want. And it'll be so easy. I'll go up fast—I doubt it'll even hurt. (Much.) And then the world will be rid of me, as well it should be.

This. Will. End. In. Flames.

I wait for the first sparks to find me, wait to go up like flash paper.

And suddenly Snow is kissing me.


	17. If the High Was Worth the Pain

**Disclaimer: You know the drill.**

 **A/N: This chapter is based on the whole line "You can tell me when it's over if the high was worth the pain," but FFN won't let me have chapter titles that long.**

 **SIMON**

I know this is hurting him. And I know he loves it.

Penny just left my room. When I transferred magic into her, she swore and told me just how much it hurt. I didn't even want to try, because I was pretty sure it was going to hurt her. But I'm holding hands with Baz and he seems to love it.

Wait, what?

Does he love holding hands with me? I thought I was just thinking about the magic transfer. He definitely loves that. He loved it earlier today, when we turned back the dragon together.

Together. I suddenly want to do lots of things together with Baz.

Right now we're flying. At least, it feels like we're flying. Or maybe floating. Is there a difference? Baz is singing " **Twinkle, twinkle little star** " with magic in it, and I'm trying not to think about how the first time I heard most nursery rhymes was in Magic Words class, because I didn't learn nursery rhymes in the care homes, because nobody talked to me or sang to me or paid me any kind of attention, not really, unless it was the kind of attention you pay to someone you're trying to beat up.

Instead, I'm trying to think about how the night sky looks. It's full of stars and we're sitting on _nothing_ , just floating, and the constellations seem so close that I think I could touch them. The sky is deep blue, deeper than anything I've ever seen before, and I could absolutely get lost in it.

Beside me, Baz is giggling. He sounds drunk. I wonder if _he's_ getting lost in the sky, and then I wonder if it's worth it, or if he's going to regret this high whenever we come back down and he has to face the pain it's causing.

 _If_ we ever come down.

Suddenly, before I can process what's happening, we're back in our room and it's like nothing ever happened. And then Baz is telling me to get off his bed.

I do, but I can't stop wondering how much this hurt, and whether it was worth it. I can't ask, not without him snapping at me or suspecting that something weird is going on ( _is_ something weird going on? We were just holding hands . . . ), but I wonder. Was the high worth the pain?


	18. Got a Long List of Ex-Lovers

**Disclaimer: As you should know by now, not mine.**

 **SIMON**

I have exactly one ex, but Agatha feels like a long list of people right now. She looks at me now the same way she looked at me when I killed that dog that was were—like I've just done something unforgivable and very, very sad. She avoids me in the halls and has moved to sit farther away from me in all of our classes, and I can feel my already (Penny-approved) short list of friends growing shorter as I have to subtract her from it.

The truth is, I feel like I _have_ killed something, even though I have no idea _how_ or what I did wrong (other than the obvious _everything_ ). Agatha and I never explicitly _talked_ about it, but I assumed for years that we'd have children together, and, with the breakup, I feel like I've killed them. Which I'm sure Penny would tell me is ridiculous on a lot of levels, ranging from the fact that they never existed to the fact that _Agatha_ is the one who broke up with _me_. But they still loom over me, the nonexistent Snow-Wellbelove children, and part of me misses them.

I miss Agatha, too. I miss the way her hand felt when I held it and the feel of her lips against mine when we kissed. I miss how excited she got when she talked about horses and the way she huffed at me when I said the wrong thing. I don't know if I'm still in love with her—I don't know if I was _ever_ in love with her, though there was definitely _something_ more than friendship between us—but I definitely miss her. Penny might say that it's just because I'm a creature of habit.

Well, so I'm a creature of habit. Too bad. I'm used to sitting next to Agatha in the dining hall and stargazing with her on the Great Lawn. I'm used to having tea with Agatha and Penny in the afternoons and doing homework with both of them in the evenings. I'm used to them both being there, and now I just have Penny.

Not that I mind just having Penny. Penny's brilliant, and I know she loves me, if not the same way Agatha did (at least, I _think_ Agatha did). But Penny has Micah, and I know she'll move away someday and there's nothing I can do about it. Well, I suppose I could follow her—there's not much for me in Britain. But even if I follow her I'll still lose her.

I guess that's what I miss about Agatha. The thing about having a girlfriend or boyfriend is that they're the one person you can count on not losing to marriage, because if they get married it'll be to _you_. At least, that's how it's supposed to work, at places like Watford. And now that's not going to happen.


	19. They'll Tell You I'm Insane

**Disclaimer: Taylor Swift owns the lyrics; Rainbow Rowell owns the characters.**

 **A/N: Some adults are terrible in this chapter. Just a heads-up.**

 **SIMON**

The Families are trying to convince the Coven that I'm insane. Given that the Families _are_ half the Coven, this isn't particularly hard. Or it wouldn't be, if it weren't for Penny's mum.

I'm getting dragged to one of the Coven meetings, supposedly to testify (again) about what happened to the Mage. Penny did most of the talking last time, which is probably why they asked me (and not her) to come back. Penny's coming anyway, though. She says she'll never let anyone interrogate me without her supervision while she's alive and kicking. Her mum doesn't like that very much—I think Mrs Bunce would like to think that _she's_ enough to protect me—but Penny knows how to get her way, even (especially?) with her own mother.

So here I am in the long, narrow boardroom where the Coven apparently meets. The walls are made of dark wood panelling darkened still further, I'm sure, by generations of tobacco smoke. There are narrow windows of leaded glass, some of it stained and making up pictures of various moments in magickal history, most notably St. George slaying the dragon. Even Normals know about that, though naturally their story about him ends considerably more happily than the true story, which involves him being cursed forever, of course, for the sin of killing a dragon.

At the first meeting, I expected to be overrun by Grimms and Pitches, but it seems that Baz is the last of both lines, so only Malcolm Grimm was present to represent the two families. The same is true today. There's also an old woman named Phillipa Petty who looks like an older version of Ebb (ouch, that memory still hurts), an even older man named Rudolphus Lightfoot, another old man named Lucian Salisbury who Penny says looks a tiny bit like _me_ , Mrs Wellbelove, and half a dozen other middle-aged or older adults. Here to decide my fate.

"Mr Snow," Mr Lightfoot begins, "what exactly were the last words you spoke to the Mage before he died?"

"Stop it," I reply. I'd put magic into them now, to demonstrate, except I don't have any.

"And did you say, 'Stop it,' with magic that day?" Mr Lightfoot continues.

"Yes, I did. Sir."

"And did you know that spell was going to kill the Mage?"

"No! I never meant to hurt him . . . sir."

"Mr Lightfoot, we've been over this," Mrs Wellbelove says. "The boy didn't mean to hurt the Mage."

"The daft man died of his own spellwork," Mrs Bunce adds. "Penny and Simon accidentally turned that magic back on him, but it's not their fault he was playing with fire."

"I fail to see how anyone with eight years of magical education could size up the situation and fail to see that reversing the Mage's magic on him could be deadly," Mr Lightfoot said. "Unless, of course, that person were insane."

"Hear, hear," says Mrs Petty.

"I agree," Mr Salisbury adds. "And if the boy weren't insane when he killed the Mage, he surely seems so now."

I notice that I'm fidgeting and immediately stop and sit on my hands.

"Rubbish," says Mrs Bunce. "Simon is as sane as you or I, though certainly he has suffered trauma from what happened."

"I'm not satisfied that the boy isn't a danger to the public," says Mrs Petty.

"He's already under house arrest; what more do you want?" Penny demanded.

" _Permanent_ house arrest," Mr Salisbury suggested.

After more deliberation, all of which occurs as if I weren't in the room (and all of which, I notice, occurs without any input whatsoever from Mr Grimm), the coven votes: three in favor; nine opposed. I'm allowed to go.

They're wrong about me . . . aren't they?


	20. Cause You Know I Love the Players

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

 **BAZ**

I'm falling for Simon. Bloody. Snow. The boy who flirts with everyone.

Or at least, the boy who flirted with everyone until about two weeks ago, when he got together with Agatha bloody Wellbelove, because of course he did. Because winking at Phillipa Stainton and holding hands with Wellbelove and smiling at Elspeth and laughing too hard at Bunce's jokes and letting Gareth do magic near him was a little too much, and nobody could keep that up forever.

I'm not sure if I should include Gareth in that tally. He's the only guy with whom Snow has ever done anything remotely flirtatious, so it was probably an accident. I'm pretty sure Snow is straight, not bi.

Oh, how I wish he were bi. The possibilities that would open . . . but I shouldn't get my hopes up. With Keris, Trixie, and myself, my class at Watford has already statistically exceeded its queer quota, and it's unlikely that there are _even more_ queer students waiting in the shadows to discover their orientation.

Besides, wouldn't they have discovered their orientation by now? I've always known I'm gay; it's just always been part of who I am. How could someone not know? Surely Snow would know by now if he were bi. Although, would he? Snow is unusually oblivious, after all. And even if he knew, he could still just flirt with girls because magic knows that's safer.

I hate how much safer it is. I hate how dangerous if feels to even _think_ about flirting with Snow. I hate the fact that, if I ever wind up with someone, Snow or otherwise, there will be people, my own father included, who think we shouldn't be allowed to get married. I hate that, if I'm ever in a relationship, I'm going to need to fear walking around in public holding hands because that could make us the target of a hate crime. I hate that there are still so many homophobes after years of debate in both the magickal and the Normal worlds about same-sex marriage.

Stronger than all this hate, though, is love. I love boys. I love _a_ boy. I love Snow. And if he loved me back that would make it worth it to face all the people who wouldn't believe we should be together.

The problem is that Snow loves Wellbelove.

They look so _right_ together, too. They're every shade of white and gold, both slim, both slightly above average in height (neither of them looms like I do). They're milk and honey, the promised land itself.

Theirs is to preen in the sunlight, and mine is to skulk in the shadows. It's only right. And oh how I hate it.


	21. And You Love the Game

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

I hate our routine.

I love our routine.

It's a game. It's a dance. It's a never-ending fight and it's dangerous and thrilling and magical and miserable and loveless and beloved.

I wind Simon up. I get him close to going off. (Crowley, is it just me or could that be describing something else?) And then I give him space. I let him calm down. And then I do it all again. Sometimes we come to blows. Sometimes we yell and curse. Sometimes we hex each other. (Well, I hex him. He's hopeless with magic.) Sometimes, though I'm almost certainly just imagining it, I think we almost kiss.

Today is just like any other day has been for the past six years. We don't speak to each other while we get ready in the morning until I'm about to leave. Then I sneer at Snow, who's struggling with his uniform in front of the mirror on his dresser, and snarl, "You're so pathetic. Can you still not tie a tie?"

"I just—it's—I'm not—I mean—" Snow splutters.

I sweep out of the room before Snow finds his tongue.

I don't speak to him again until the second class of the day, Magic Words, when he butchers a French word for the fourth time in a row. "You don't pronounce the S on the end of 'vous,' Snow," I sneer. "And we learned that in, what, second year?"

"Yeah, well, we can't all take holidays in France to stay in practice, now can we?" Snow demands. A more salient point than he usually makes, I'll give him that.

"It's called reviewing your notes," I shoot back.

"Like you would know anything about that. You don't even have to try!" Simon half-shouts. (He's never been one for volume control.)

"Now, boys," says Miss Possibelf, approaching us almost silently from behind. "The only words I should be hearing from either of you are the words in the spell we're practicing today. Understood?"

"Yes, Miss Possibelf," Snow and I instantly reply.

That's the end of the matter until Snow shoves me on the way out of class. I'm pretty sure I could get him in trouble if I reported it, but I don't want to be that student who always goes running to the teacher, so I shove him back instead. We both shove each other a few more times, but it doesn't really escalate and we stop when we get to our next classroom. It's satisfying that he's back to clobbering weight now. I spent most of September feeling a tiny bit guilty for shoving around my obviously undernourished, orphaned roommate.

Things are calm between us for most of the rest of the day, but, during dinner, I sit behind Snow instead of in my usual seat so that I can magic some invisible pins into flying at his head. They're tiny, and I don't send them fast enough to draw blood, but Snow seems really annoyed and he can't prove that I have anything to do with what's bothering him, which is good enough for me.

When we get back to our room, Snow waits until we've both started our homework and then chucks a book at my head.

"Anathema!" I say, rubbing where it hit my forehead when I turned to look.

Snow smirks back at me. "Worth it."

I both love and hate the expression on his face.

I both love and hate this game we're playing.


	22. Cause We're Young and We're Reckless

**Disclaimer: Taylor, Rainbow, etc.**

 **A/N: I couldn't upload anything yesterday for some reason, so that's why you didn't get an update then. Sorry. Updates may get more sporadic soon as I start an internship on Monday. We'll see.**

 **BAZ**

If my mother were here, she'd give me detention.

If my father were here, he'd tell me that subtlety is a virtue I lack.

If Fiona were here, she'd cheer me on.

Instead, all my classmates are here (some of them are cheering me on), and I can hear Penelope Bunce's shrill voice yelling, "Anathema!"

That girl should know better. The Anathema only applies in our rooms. I can punch Snow all I want here in the corridor.

Snow's trying to punch me back, of course, but I'm too quick for him. I'd say he's pathetic at fistfighting, but that would be a bigger lie than even I am willing to tell. He's good at this; I don't want to think about it, but he probably learned in the care homes. He probably _had_ to learn.

I didn't have to learn. Not really. Not coming from old money, from one of the Families. But I wanted to. I wanted to be that kind of tough, that kind of cool.

And then I met Snow. And I wanted to be that kind of bad. The kind that could push him—literally and figuratively—until he broke. Because, at least for my first few years, I wanted to see him break.

Now I mostly just want my hands on him.

I try to put that thought out of my head, but I'm unsuccessful at controlling my own mind until I land a particularly impressive right hook to Snow's jaw and he's tumbling backward down the stairs.

I see it unfold like it's in slow motion. The way his backside and tailbone collide with the third stair down, the way he backward-somersaults midway down the flight of steps, the way he slides down to the bottom of the stairs on his back, the steps rattling his vertebrae. I think about how easily he could have broken his neck or cracked his skull—how easily this could have been the end of him—and I have to keep myself from wincing. (It's not hard to control my face in public—I have so much practice—but it does take effort, nevertheless.) I wonder if his magic somehow protected him, left him with some bumps and bruises but nothing permanent or even really close. I wonder if _my_ magic did it.

I bow to my classmates, some of whom are clapping. Then I say, "All right, all right, show's over," just as Madam Possibelf appears on the scene. (I wonder what took her so long. No one was trying to be quiet.)

"Mr Snow," she calls, "are you all right?"

"I'll live," he calls, picking himself up off the flagstones.

"Mr Pitch," the professor grits out then, "my office. Now."

She asks if I tried to kill Snow. I say no, naturally.

Later, I tell Fiona yes.


	23. We'll Take This Way Too Far

**A/N: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

Okay, maybe I've gone a bit far with the chimera.

I had Fiona bring it to me, drugged, earlier today. Together, we hid it in the Wavering Woods, near a large boulder where I can hide for cover and watch Snow find the creature and wet his pants. I used the boulder as the landmark in the fake note from Wellbelove that I left in our room for Snow to find. Wellbelove can't get into our room, so she could never leave Snow a note there, but I think Snow is too thick to get suspicious.

The only love notes I can leave for Snow are ones that pretend to be from someone else.

I've been in the Wavering Woods for an hour now. Fiona left about 40 minutes ago. Snow should be here any minute.

There he is.

He's a bit late, and smoke is already pouring out of all three of the chimera's sets of nostrils. It's a bizarre mashup of creatures, I have to say: mostly it looks like a lion, but it has a shaggy goat's head rising from its back and a snake's head at the end of its tail. The smoke from the chimera doesn't smell at all like the campfire scent Snow usually gives off but instead reminds me of burning food.

Snow looks around comically for Wellbelove before spotting the chimera. Then he screams, I think only because he doesn't think there's anyone around, and I treasure the sound. Yes, I love Snow, but that only makes me want to prove that I have a hold over him, that our relationship isn't defined solely by him unconsciously playing me like a violin.

Snow fumbles around for his wand, and, as I watch him try to fight, I realize that I tragically overestimated his abilities, and he's going to get killed if I don't step in. The chimera is breathing fire now, and Snow doesn't know how to protect himself. Snow is good at fistfights, but ask him to use his magic and he's hopeless. In fact, he puts away his wand and gets out his sword while I'm watching.

I step out from behind the boulder and start shouting spells. " **Go home! Get lost! Dead in the air! Out cold!** " I yell. Snow just stares at me. "Do it, Snow!" I shout while the chimera looks confused. My roommate has joined me behind the boulder at this point and is just blinking at me. "Unleash!"

"I can't!" he replies, while I go back to shouting spells at the monster I brought here. "It doesn't work like that!"

"Light a match," I say while the chimera is trying to get free of my **Caught red-handed** spell. "Reach inside yourself and light a match. That's what my mother always told me."

The chimera charges toward us. " **Stop in the name of love!** " I shout, but that doesn't slow the creature down at all.

The next thing I know, I wake up in the Wavering Wood to the intense smell of Snow's magic. My eyebrows are singed.


	24. It'll Leave You Breathless

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

I can hardly breathe. And it's glorious.

It's not even so much that his mouth is on mine. (I'm not a mouth breather.) It's that he's kissing me. I can't believe this is happening. I'm practically in shock. (In a good way.)

He pulls away, much too soon, and still I can't breathe. We put the fire out and all the while I'm drinking the air in tiny sips, afraid to do much more than that lest I break the spell that's hanging between us, or burst.

I tell him I need to drink, and he holds my hand (my breath catches again) while he has me summon a deer. I get away from him once the deer arrives, thank snakes, and, as I lead the doe away and drain it, and then carry its carcass to a ravine and trudge back, I finally start to catch my breath.

Then I'm back with Simon and he's breathtakingly beautiful and breathtakingly hesitant with me, so gentle, and he really does take my breath away. Everything about him does.

I don't know when exactly it shifts, but sometime between our second makeout session and when we wind up lying on my floor, talking while he practically falls asleep, he stops taking my breath away and starts being the reason I _can_ breathe. My lungs fill past what they normally do, past what I thought was their capacity, but it doesn't feel unnatural. It just feels like I suddenly have enough breath to break scuba-diving records, yet that's somehow normal. And then I realize that what really happened was that the tension I'd been carrying, wondering if he'd ever love me or if I'd have to keep my feelings a secret until one of us finally killed the other, is gone.

He takes my breath away again the next morning, rubbing my stomach and leaning in to kiss me, but when the girls show up he keeps me breathing through the hours of tension that make up their visit. When he leaves, my chest tightens, and when he comes back wearing half the countryside again, that tightness loosens; even a family dinner where Simon makes a fool of himself is better than a family dinner with no Simon at all.

Part of me wants to curse him for being even more necessary than I realized. But it makes perfect sense that Simon Snow, my love, is life and breath to me.

 **A/N: "You are life and breath to me" is probably really common, but I'm getting it from "That's How The Light Gets In," an ace!Sherlock fic on AO3.**


	25. Or with a Nasty Scar

**Disclaimer: Taylor Swift. Rainbow Rowell. The end.**

 **SIMON**

I don't remember I'm wearing my cross until I feel Baz tear open my shirt collar and grab it. I don't mind that he gets rid of it. I mean, yes, I was wearing it to keep him at bay, but that's not necessary anymore. At least, I don't think it is. We're on the same side now, right? That's what kissing means.

I find the cross again and put it back on while he's draining the deer, though. Just because Baz doesn't want to kill me now doesn't guarantee he won't change his mind. Merlin, I hope he doesn't. I want him to . . . I want him to like me. Right? That goes along with kissing him. Wanting him to like me. Yeah, that's definitely what I want.

I want to kiss him some more when we get back to his house, so I take off my cross once we get to his room. I think that's the end of the matter, but then I squeeze his hand and he yelps. He sounds so hurt. Like a kicked puppy or something. My heart breaks. I take his hand and lift it to my face, and that's when I see the burn mark from when he grabbed my cross. The marks on his palm are raised and pink, and I'm pretty sure they're going to scar.

I kiss his palm. Somehow that feels more intimate than kissing him on the mouth. Baz relaxes when I do that, and I can feel the tension going out of him, even though only our hands are in contact. It's odd, because I'd have expected the pressure of my lips there to hurt, but I suppose they must feel more good than bad.

He asks me questions then, and I do my best to answer them even though I'm incredibly tired. But I can't stop thinking of the mark on his palm. Will it scar? Will it become a permanent part of him? (Merlin and Morgana, he really is a vampire. For real.)

I think about all the other scars that are permanent parts of us. The marks on my leg where I got bitten by that dog that was _were_. The scars on Penny's knee from the worsegers. The scars around Baz's ankles from when the numpties chained him up. The marks on Agatha's wrists from when we were kidnapped by goblins.

It occurs to me that being around me is bad for people's health, and that, if I really care about Baz, I should probably warn him off. But then, he's been around for the better part of eight years now. He knows how dangerous this is, probably better than I do.

Besides, I want him around. And I'm the worst chosen one who's ever been chosen, so I probably get to be a bit selfish.


	26. I've Got a Blank Space, Baby

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **SIMON**

I can hardly believe it, even though we've put all the pieces together. I'm the cause of the dead spots. I'm the greatest threat to magic there's ever been. It's me. Even Baz never suspected I was this much of a failure.

I remember how it felt, being in that dead spot, just a couple of days ago. Like sand in my eyes. Sand in my throat. Sand everywhere, and endless hunger. And it's all my fault.

Penny would say that to be my fault, I'd have to be doing it intentionally. But what does intention matter, in the end? So I'm accidentally stealing magic from places. All that really matters is that the magic is gone, and, as best as anyone can figure out, it's not coming back.

I want to put the magic back. I want to undo all the magic I've ever done, all the times I've gone off. I want to make things right. But I've never done anything right when it comes to magic. I don't think I can. Quite literally, all I do is suck.

I keep thinking like that for months, until I talk to my psychologist about it, after everything happens. She tells me that it's not my fault, which I suppose I already knew, and that I can't be held accountable for anything I didn't intend and didn't know anything about.

She also tells me to tag along with Dr Bunce when he visits the dead spots. So I do. The first time, we go to the one in Newcastle, where I've never been before. I spend the entire journey there nervous that this is going to be a mistake. When we get there, though, at first I can't feel anything. Then I notice the magicians on Dr Bunce's team rubbing their eyes a lot and clearing their throats. I realize that they feel the dryness, the sand, that I felt once. It feels strange that I can't feel everything.

I hang around the magicians while they examine the site, and I feel useless. I can't take any readings because I don't have magic. And the whole reason we're here is that I never should have had magic. What was it the Mage called me? A broken vessel? That's what I was, what I _am_.

Dr Bunce notices me moping and comes up alongside me. He finishes scribbling something in his notebook (he was walking while he wrote) and then says, "What do you think?"

"That the world would have been better of without me," I say before I can stop myself.

Dr Bunce looks me in the eye. I didn't know he did eye contact. It's the first time he's done something like this in the eight years I've known him. "Nonsense," he says, and his tone makes it seem like he's putting magic into the word.

He doesn't say much else, but it's the most conviction I've ever heard in his voice, and it tides me over until I can speak to my psychologist again.


	27. And I'll Write Your Name

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

 **BAZ**

It's been a strained couple of months.

I thought the most torturous thing that could possibly happen to me was sharing a room with Snow and knowing he would never love me. But it turns out that dating him and never getting to see him is almost bad. I wouldn't say it's worse—this way I at least get to hope for the future—but I think it's more exhausting. I want him every minute, even when I'm sitting in class or doing Greek homework. And my daydreams have so much more color now that we've kissed.

Even after everything we've done, it's hard to believe that he really wants me like that. Part of me keeps whispering that he's only with me as a rebound from Wellbelove, or because he wanted to save my life and didn't know how to say no after he did that. I've tried to give him opportunities to leave—even that first morning after we kissed, I kept trying to push him away—and he keeps coming back, which the rational part of me says means that he really does like me. (More than like me?) It doesn't totally rule out the rebound theory, though.

It's just hard to imagine measuring up to Wellbelove, in terms of people who should be with Snow. I mean, I know I'm more powerful than Wellbelove, and a better student, but she's gorgeous, and, well, female. After how painful coming out has been for me, with my father's nearly unequivocal rejection and my stepmother's lukewarm acceptance, it's hard to picture anyone doing that willingly, if they don't have to. If Snow can fall for girls, why not just marry one and pretend he's straight? I'm not worried that he's actually straight, not after everything we've done, but I think it's pretty unlikely that he's gay, either. And if you're bi, why not pass for straight and make things easier on yourself?

Snow would probably kiss me on the cheek if I said that out loud to him. (Which is one of the many reasons that I love him even more now than I ever imagined possible.) But that wouldn't stop me from worrying. How can I be enough?

I finally work up the courage to call Snow and tell him what I'm worrying about. (Mobile phones are finally allowed at Watford now that Mitali Bunce is headmistress.) We speak sporadically, though we usually text at least once a day. Now, though, I swallow, dial his number, and try for a direct approach. "Snow?" I say. "Do you—"

" _Please_ call me Simon, Baz," he interrupts.

I sigh. The interruption nearly cost me my nerve. " _Simon_ , do you really want to be with me?"

"What? Baz, of course. I don't kiss people _casually_."

"But do you ever want to be public about our relationship?"

"I think so," he replies. "Do you?"

"Well, yes," I reply. "But I'm gay. Any relationship I have is going to necessitate coming out if I want to be open about things. The same isn't true for you."

"First of all, I don't even know whether I'm gay," Snow says, sounding irritated. "Secondly, what do I have to risk? The only people who really care about me are you and Penny, and neither of you minds. It's not like I have a family to get disowned _from_."

"Are you sure?"

"That I don't have a family? Yes, very. What kind of a question is that?"

"No, that you want to be with me. Publically."

"Not entirely, but I'm close," Snow says.

"Okay," I whisper. It's the best I can hope for right now.


	28. Cherry Lips, Crystal Skies

**Disclaimer: Taylor Swift, Rainbow Rowell . . . you know the drill.**

 **BAZ**

I bet he tastes like cherries. Cherries and sugar and an amount of butter that should be disgusting but isn't. After all, practically all he eats are sour cherry scones. Well, sour cherry scones and everything else Cook Prichard sets in front of him.

Snow has the reddest lips of any bloke I've ever met, too. I'd suspect him of wearing lipstick if I didn't know his morning routine by heart. But nope—his lips are just naturally that red. His mouth and sour cherry scones were made for each other—they're both red and round and not nearly as sweet as you'd expect. Based on what comes out of his mouth, I mean. Based on what he _says._ I don't know how his mouth actually _tastes_. (Not that I haven't imagined it. Not that I don't want it so, so badly.)

Tonight I'm thinking about his mouth. Well, about his whole face, really. His whole _body_. Certainly his hands. His hand on my shoulder earlier, pushing magic into me like I didn't know you _could_. His hand in my hand now, letting me draw on his magic again. He has calluses where I wouldn't expect, different from the ones I have from my wand. They're probably from wielding that ridiculous sword he always uses because he's so rubbish at magic.

I can't focus too much on the feel of his hand in mine, though. I can't focus much on anything right now, because I feel drunk. I've spelled us up into the sky with **Twinkle, twinkle little star** and now we're floating. I think. We didn't leave via the window, and I don't think I melted away Mummer's House, so we might still be in our room, actually. It sure looks like we're up in the sky. And oh, I want to kiss him.

Drowning in magic as I am right now, my inhibitions are so low that I could almost imagine myself doing it. Just propping myself up on an elbow, leveraging myself into sitting position, leaning over, and putting my mouth on his. I don't entirely know why I don't. He's going to kill me someday—may as well be today. Except . . . except that maybe, if we keep doing what we're doing now, maybe he _won't_ kill me someday. We can keep sharing magic and secrets and space and it'll be . . . okay.

I giggle, and then I'm laughing too hard to think. _This_ is why I don't drink. I don't like losing track of my train of thought. But it's not so bad right now, floating in this crystalline sky beside this cherry-lipped boy, with the stars practically close enough to touch.

It's not so bad.


	29. Stolen Kisses, Pretty Lies

**Disclaimer: Same old, same old.**

 **BAZ**

I can't tell him. I can't tell him how long I've wanted this. It would just scare him. Scare him into leaving. And I can't have that.

He kissed me for the first time tonight, and I kissed him back, and _that_ I can do. I'm good at stealing kisses, it turns out. (Put that on the list of things I've learned tonight.) I don't know why it's called that— _stealing_ kisses—but it feels accurate. I know I'm not being honest with him, and that might be the only reason he's kissing me. Because he thought I was going to die. Because he thinks I don't care about him. (Would that be a reason for him to kiss me? Would he want to kiss me if he knew I'm in love with him? Is he somehow attracted to my feigned uninterest?)

I lie to him. I tell him that kissing him never even occurred to me. (It so much more than occurred to me.) And then I go up on all fours above him and make him reach for my mouth. Miraculously, he does. And I keep lying.

We kiss by the fireplace until the sky outside my window goes grey with pre-dawn. We transition to the sofa, and I keep thinking I'm going to get up and get into bed any minute now, but then I fall asleep. I sleep fitfully, waking every half hour or so to reposition myself, but I never keep my promise to myself and move to the bed.

When he finally wakes up, he knows I've been looking at him, and he tells me to stop. I wonder if I should feel guilty. I don't. I do feel needy, though, for wanting his mouth against mine so badly that anything less than another makeout session is going to make me pout.

Bits of truth have been slipping through my facade, like last night when I told him I've wanted to kiss the mole on his neck for a long time. I'm scared of telling him the truth like that, but the way his eyes widened when I said it make me wonder if I should try telling him the truth more often.

I don't worry about it while the girls are around. Keeping them in the dark is far too important. Whatever is going on between Snow and me, it's far too tenuous and, anyway, far too early to tell anyone. When Snow leaves with them, I think that's the end of it.

Then he comes tumbling back and I know that, if I want to steal more kisses, I'm going to have to do it with truth. No more pretty lies.


	30. You're the King, Baby, I'm Your Queen

**Disclaimer: The lyrics still belong to Taylor Swift and the characters still belong to Rainbow Rowell.**

 **BAZ**

Snow may be the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen, but he's also the most powerful magician alive—to have ever lived, probably—and, between that and being the Mage's heir, he's virtually a prince. And my childhood full of fairy tales (they're practically obligatory in every magickal household, since their classic words hold so much power) taught me that the proper thing to do with a prince is to get him to kiss you. Attend his ball, fall asleep where he can rescue you—the details don't matter much. The point is, you're supposed to kiss.

Oh, how I want him to kiss me.

I never let anyone see, but I do little doodles and sketches of Prince Simon and Prince Baz. Sometimes I feel ashamed of how gay it looks and make it Prince Simon and Princess Baz, as if that makes it any better. The only thing I really need to change in the sketches is my chest. My hair is long enough to be feminine anyway.

He's going to be king someday, for all intents and purposes, and Wellbelove is going to be his queen. Regardless of what I want.

 **SIMON**

On my way back to Baz's house, after bailing out of Agatha's car when she and Penny and I were headed back to London, the day after I kissed Baz for the first (and hopefully not last) time, I think about the impossible grandeur that awaits me. The opulence of Baz's house is beyond what I could have imagined before yesterday. I always knew Baz came from money, but this is something else. I'm overwhelmed.

Last night, when I first kissed Baz, a number of descriptors of him cycled through my head. Monster. Villain. Bully. _Boy_. But what I forgot to factor into all of those descriptors was the money he comes from. If magicians had titles, he'd be a duke or a baron at least. (Are dukes higher than barons? Hell if I know.) Combining the Grimm and Pitch lines as he does, he's practically a prince. Which means someday he'll basically be king. What am I doing kissing someone like that?

Sure, I'm the Chosen One. But I'm the worst Chosen One who's ever been chosen. Baz is right about that. I have tons of power, but I can't control it. All I'm really good for is killing things with a sword.

 _You'll be king_ , I think as I tumble into the Grimm-Pitch house, covered in snow, for the second time in two days. _Just let me be your queen._


	31. Find Out What You Want

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay! I'm studying hard for the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT) and it's kind of eating me!**

 **BAZ**

I've thought for a long time that I could read Snow like a magazine, but it turns out there are limits to that. Christmas is coming up, and I have no idea what to get him.

It feels a little weird that we've known each other for over eight years, but we've never gotten each other presents before. The pressure's on now, though, because Christmas is also our anniversary. Plus, we're going to be spending the holiday with my family, since Daphne is insisting that my father extend at least a minimal level of hospitality to us, and I want to give Snow something that will make up for how horrible I'm sure the holiday is going to be.

I don't think Snow has even realized that either Christmas or our anniversary is coming up anytime soon. It wouldn't surprise me. His ability to be oblivious is so great that it should probably win some kind of award.

Finally, having wracked my brain for weeks and come up empty, I decide there's only one thing to do: I have to ask Bunce. I show up at her and Snow's flat early one Friday afternoon in late November and knock on the door. (Snow keeps talking about getting me a key, only half-joking, but he's never gotten around to it.)

Bunce opens the door and peers at me. "What are you doing here? Simon's classes don't end until four."

I step past Bunce and into the flat. "I know. I wanted to talk to you."

"Okay . . . ," Bunce says, following me. "What about?"

We're on speaking terms these days, and technically I should probably be using her first name, but old habits die hard. "I don't know what to get Snow for Christmas," I admit.

Bunce laughs. "Really? You beat me out for top student, Baz. You can't figure this out?"

I scowl. "I've never had a boyfriend before, okay?"

Bunce laughs a bit more and then says, "Okay, okay. I'm planning on getting him a cookbook and a magickal jacket that conceals his wings. Why don't you get him some baking supplies? You know, a muffin tin and things like that. Our supply of pots and pans and things is pretty basic."

I force a smile. (I'm genuinely pleased with the advice, but also, it's Bunce. Even though we get along now, I don't want to smile at her so soon after she's been laughing at me.) "Thanks for the advice. Mind if I look through the kitchen to see what you have, so I don't duplicate anything?"

Bunce shrugs. (Thank magic she doesn't do that as often as Snow.) "Sure. Go ahead."

I follow Bunce's advice, and it pays off when Snow rolls off my sofa on Christmas morning and finds a package next to his suitcase. He kisses me once he's opened it and tells me it's perfect. What surprises me, though, is that he remembered to get me something, too: a photo album of the two of us. He definitely wins at Christmas presents this time around.


	32. Be That Boy for a Month

**Disclaimer: Rainbow Rowell. Taylor Swift.**

 **SIMON**

It's hard being married to someone who's basically nobility. The World of Mages has become a lot more egalitarian in the years since Mrs Bunce took over Watford, but there are still traces of the old order. And it's not like Baz has fully shaken off the mindset he grew up with. I can tell that, no matter how much he wants me, he also wants the picture-perfect life he was raised to think he was going to have.

We finished uni last spring and got married over the summer, and since then I've been trying my best to fit into Baz's idea of the life he wants. There was less pressure in uni, since we didn't technically live together and we didn't have jobs yet. But now Baz is an investment banker and I'm attending grad school in maths, and we live together and Baz wants to _entertain._ I'm actually not entirely convinced he even really wants to. He just thinks he _should_ , because it's what a Grimm-Pitch does. I mean, obviously Fiona doesn't, but Baz kind of considers her a failure, no matter how much he loves her.

I don't mind the cooking part of entertaining so much; I actually love to cook. What I mind is the small talk, and the way that company takes Baz's attention away from me. I'd rather be doing maths, or working out, or Skyping Penny (who's in America now with Micah), or enjoying Baz's company. Anything but making nice with a bunch of bankers and their wives (why are they all straight, and why are all the bankers men?), or Baz's old London School of Economics classmates, or even Dev and Niall and their girlfriends. Baz sometimes asks if I'd like to have some of my friends over, but the truth is that trying to race through years of remedial maths and then take university-levels maths and graduate on time with a maths degree didn't leave me much time to make friends, and I had different people in each class since I took them all out of order. Besides, it was hard to figure out what to talk to people about, since all that was on my mind the first year of uni was how I'd possibly killed the Mage.

All of this adds up to Baz finding my crying in our bedroom half an hour before his colleagues are supposed to come over one Friday evening. "I thought you'd be in the kitchen" is the first thing he says when he enters the bedroom to change (from one suit into another; I don't understand the point).

I look up at him through my tears. "Seriously?"

"Oh, Crowley, you're _crying_ ," he says, sitting next to me. He pulls me into his arms and says, "Hey, I'm sorry, all right?"

I sniffle and say, "Okay."

Baz leans down a bit so that he can get his head below mine. This is the only way to make eye contact with me, since I've got my head tilted down. "Simon, what's going on?"

"I just—I can't do this anymore," I sob. "The small talk, the playing host—not this often, Baz. It's so draining."

Baz hugs me tightly. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I thought—I knew you wanted this. I figured I should try to give you what you want, what you grew up wanting."

"Simon, Simon," he murmurs. "I want you to be happy, all right? More than I want to entertain or to live like nobility or any of it. I want you to be happy."

I draw back and wipe my face on the back of my hand. "Okay. I can do tonight, I promise. And then we'll reevaluate?"

Baz nods. "Then we'll reevaluate."


	33. Wait, The Worst Is Yet to Come, Oh No

**Disclaimer: Rainbow Rowell owns the characters and Taylor Swift owns the lyrics.**

 **SIMON**

I'm on the train heading for whatever care home the Mage is sending me to this year. All I know about it is what city it's in. I mean, I have an address, but, since I don't have a mobile phone, it's not like I can check out my new home on Google Earth. I'm just going to look at maps and ask for help until I get where I'm going.

Everything is bloody exhausting. The end of the school year, fighting the Humdrum, switching care homes every summer, all of it. This year is especially bad. The Humdrum summoned Penny and me away from Watford just as we found Baz and Agatha together in the Wavering Wood, and we had to fight the Humdrum and then find our way back to Watford on public transit without arousing suspicion as to why two seriously beat-up teenagers were traveling together on what ought to have been a school day. We burst into the end-of-year ceremony, and then the Mage sent us packing. Just like that. I would've thought he'd do something to protect us—protect _me_ —but apparently he thinks being in the Normal world is protection enough. (How can he think that? If the Humdrum can summon me away from Watford, it can summon me away from anywhere.)

What's even more exhausting than fighting the Humdrum, though, is thinking about how the worst is yet to come. I try not to think about it most of the time, but sometimes it slips in. Mostly in my dreams. (Nightmares.) There will have to be a final confrontation someday, because my life is a story and that's how stories go. It'll probably involve Baz somehow, because of course he'll find a way in, the prat. And he'll kill me or I'll kill him. (He'll probably kill me. He's a vampire, plus he's way better at magic than I am.) And then, if I survive or if Baz somehow fails to show up, then I'll fight the Humdrum, and it will kill me or I'll kill it. I have no idea what will happen if I win. I really don't think that's very likely. Honestly, ever since I found out about the Humdrum, I haven't expected to live to see nineteen. (Not that I even know when my birthday is.) I kind of feel bad for the rest of the world, since it's relying on me to defeat something that's almost certainly going to kill me.

I decide not to think about that.


	34. Screaming, Crying

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

 **BAZ**

I'm pathetic. One little photograph and I can't get ahold of myself. I just . . . I looked so _alive._ So _human_ , with my red-gold skin and chubby cheeks _._ It hurt to see that, more than it had any right to. It's just that I can usually avoid thinking about everything I'm missing out on. Life is just something other people have that I don't. I'm used to not having it. But to have to confront the fact that I _had_ it . . . It hurts.

I wander the catacombs. It's dark and damp down here, and I rage and scream and cry with no one to hear me. No one ever hears me cry. At home, I spell my room soundproof when I need to break down, and at school I come down here or to the Wavering Woods when my emotions overwhelm me. Unlike Snow, I've never had a breakdown in our room. There's no way I could let myself be that vulnerable when he could walk in at any moment. (In my dreams, sometimes I cry in front of Snow and he comforts me. He wipes away my tears and kisses my face and calls me "darling." It makes me want to ask my dream psyche what it was smoking. If Snow saw me crying, he'd laugh in my face.)

I sit down for a while at the tomb of Les Enfants. Rats scurry past, and usually I'd drain them, but that would require getting my breathing under control, which tonight seems impossible, so I just let the rats scurry on by. I tell my mother I miss her. I ask if she remembers calling me her "little puff." I ask God or Fate of whoever's in charge of the universe why they did all of this to me. Why they took my mother, turned my father against me, and made me fall in love with my roommate. Why they let me become a vampire. Why they let me die at the age of five, when my biggest sin was probably snatching somebody's toy and not giving it back. (I do believe I died, when I Turned. I'm pretty sure I lost my soul in the process.)

I cry and cry and cry. I'm not sure who I'm grieving for more—my mother or myself. I lost a parent and my soul on the same day—which is supposed to matter more? I finally decide to focus on my mother. With Snow's information, we might be able to avenge her death. (I can't believe I just thought of Snow and me as a "we.") I take some steadying breaths as I think about the fact that we have a lead for the first time in thirteen years.

I stop by the boys' toilet on my way back to Mummer's House to clean myself up. I want to be able to fall straight into bed when I get back to my room, and there's no way I'm walking in there looking like I've just cried for hours. Not with Snow present.


	35. Perfect Storm

**Disclaimer: Same old, same old.**

 **SIMON**

I'm a disaster. There's only one thing I'm good at, and that's being an absolute mess.

One time, when I was about six, several of us at the care home where I lived got the flu the same week. I remember, somewhere in that feverish haze, hearing the woman who ran the home muttering under her breath about a "perfect storm." At the time, the phrase made me excited. I wanted to see a perfect storm. I imagined really epic lightning displays and the most resounding thunder ever heard. After all, anything described by the word "perfect" had to be good, right?

Wrong.

Penny explained the concept of a "perfect storm" to me during our second year at Watford. Then, when I was seventeen and Penny and I got summoned away from Watford by the Humdrum, I thought that might have been a perfect storm: Agatha possibly cheating on me— _with Baz_ —while the Humdrum tried to kill Penny and me with its (his?) weird magickal powers. Several months later, I was pretty sure _this_ was it: the Mage fighting Ebb (one of the first people I ever loved) while the Humdrum was an imminent threat and I was separated from all my friends. After all, that moment was all my worst nightmares rolled into one.

Now, though, I'm pretty sure it's not a situation that's a perfect storm, at least not around me. I think _I'm_ the perfect storm. I'm just a bloody disaster, all the bloody time. Trying to hang up these fairy lights, for instance. I'm hopelessly tangled in the strand of lights, and I nearly electrocuted myself plugging them in to see if they worked. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand I just knocked over the Christmas tree. At least Baz and Penny are laughing. Usually I'd be a bit miffed about them laughing at me, but now I'm less concerned about the distinction between laughing _with_ and laughing _at_ than I am about whether they'll be angry that I just tipped over the Christmas tree and broke several branches and a dozen ornaments in the process.

" **A place for everything and everything in its place** ," Penny says, pointing with her ring hand at the tree and then at me. The fairy lights fly away from me and land, neatly coiled, on the floor. Then she points at the broken ornaments on the carpet. " **Good as new**."

Baz surges forward and wraps his arms around me, holding me snugly against him. "Simon Snow," he whispers. "You literally couldn't be a bigger mess."

"And we match?" I whisper back. I _hope_ that's where this is going.

Baz pulls back just far enough for me to see him smile. "And we match."

 **A/N: Credit to warrior of the nile for the story "Tis The Season," which first featured Simon tangled up in Christmas decorations. That was their idea, not mine, and I hope they don't mind me stealing it. (Go read their story! It's good!)**


	36. I Can Make All the Tables Turn

**Disclaimer: Swiwell? Rowift? (Why is spell check not underlining the second one?)**

 **SIMON**

I think the Mage might want my magic.

I've spent my whole adolescence—half my life, really—doing what he's told me. (Well, except for recently, when he stopped telling me things and I started trusting Baz.) But he's wrong about this. I can't give my magic to the Mage, because I have to give it to the Humdrum. Baz was wrong; sometimes holes just want to be filled.

My heart aches, because what the Mage said about me not being the Chosen One made so much sense, and now I have to ignore it. Maybe I'm not the Chosen One. Maybe there is no Chosen One. But I'm the one with the illicit magic, the one who's stealing power from everywhere, so I'm the one who has to make this right. Chosen One or not, _this_ is my job.

I pour my magic into the Humdrum and pour and pour and pour until there's nothing left. I'm dimly aware of noise and light around me, and even more dimly aware of pressure on my chest as the Mage tries to shove me away from the Humdrum, but I don't pay attention to any of it. I just keep focusing on giving my magic away.

It's not enough. It is for the Humdrum—he's gone—but the Mage still wants my power, which no longer exists. He keeps yelling, "Give it to me!"

I can't make him stop until Penny shouts, " **Simon says!** "

Then I say, " **Stop it, stop hurting me!** " and I can hear the magic in my voice. It sounds different than it ever has before, which makes sense, since I'm using Penny's power rather than my own. My voice sounds a little like the Mage's.

The Mage falls into Baz's arms. (No fair— _I_ want to be the one doing that.) And then, slowly, I realize that the Mage is dead. I ask why he's dead and Penny suggests that dying may have been the only way he could stop hurting me. He only got what he was trying to give, maybe. I cry anyway. I'm bleeding everywhere, and I have Ebb's blood on me too, and the Mage is dead, and I just gave the Humdrum all my magic, and I'm exhausted. I cry and cry.

It's not until months later that my therapist convinces me that I did all I could and have nothing to feel guilty about.


	37. Rose Garden Filled with Thorns

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

Snow tells me I'm fit on a regular basis. Fiona has commented that I got all the looks in the family. Even Bunce has groused about me being "devastatingly good-looking" (though she'd had a few drinks first). I used to question them—my hair is ridiculous, with the widow's peak like an arrow pointing down my face ("This way to the vampire!"), and I'm _grey_ , for snakes' sakes—but eventually I came to recognize that, with that much consensus (plus Wellbelove and Daphne, and later Mordelia), they're probably right. I probably am good-looking, at least to some degree. Merlin knows I work at it.

But the thing is that my looks are basically a trap. I mean, if Snow's any indication, my looks can ensnare someone into falling for me. (Well, maybe it's not _just_ my looks.) But I'm a vampire. I have _fangs_. I'm a rose garden filled with thorns, pretty enough to lure you in but sharp enough to hurt you. And with me being a vampire, that hurt would not be temporary. It would be about as permanent as it's possible to be.

My deepest fear is that I'll Turn Snow. I fear that more than I fear losing him, more than I fear facing my father about my queerness, more than I fear not being prepared for classes at a Normal university after eight years at Watford, more than I fear numpties, more than I fear my nightmares. When Snow kisses me, I lose my head, and that's exactly what I can't afford to do, not if I'm going to keep him safe.

He questions why I pull away sometimes when we're in the middle of making out. Luckily I've always managed to keep my fangs retracted, so he doesn't suspect how close I've come to biting him. But I pull away because I feel my fangs trying to pop, and I know that as soon as that happens it's all over. I don't know what Snow would do if I Turned him—if he'd kill himself or try to live a normal life or even join Nicodemus and company—but I'm sure it wouldn't involve me. Turning him would be unforgivable. (A tiny part of me whispers that he might love me enough to forgive me, but I can't believe that. Becoming a vampire is a permanent transition that no one in their right mind could possibly want. And besides, Snow can't really love me anywhere near that much. That would be ridiculous.)

Occasionally I consider trying to drive Snow away, for his own safety. But then he nuzzles into me and tells me he loves me and I am weak enough to stay.


	38. Keep You Second-Guessing

**Disclaimer: Once again, Rainbow Rowell and Taylor Swift own things here. I do not.**

 **SIMON**

Baz has me second-guessing this whole snogging thing.

I thought we were doing so well last night, snogging in the woods and then on the floor in his room. Sure, he still snapped at me half the time, but even in spite of that he seemed happier than I'd seen him since that time fifth year when he pushed me down the stairs. But this morning I said he couldn't watch me sleep "just because we're snogging," and he corrected that to "Just because we _snogged_." Does that mean we're not snogging anymore? Does he not like it? Oh Crowley, does that mean he never liked it? I did kiss him first. Maybe he didn't actually enjoy it, but he just went along with it because he didn't know what else to do? Should I apologize? Should I just leave? I can't leave; Penny's coming over. She has information, and Baz wants to tell her what we found out among the vampires. So I definitely can't leave. But Merry Morgana, have I ruined our truce?

I find Baz in the library (his house has as a _library_ ) writing on a big whiteboard. Did he conjure that up with magic or is it just one of the million random things that just _happen_ to be lying around this house? It would feel out-of-sync with the gothic (excuse me, _Victorian_ ) style of the house, but I've already seen Baz's stepmom's laptop, plus there's a weird ultra modern Japanese toilet in the bathroom. I guess that's what happens when you're rich and determined to live in the twenty-first century but equally determined to honor the family legacy when it comes to inheriting mansions. At least, I think that's the reason this house is the way it is.

Anyway, I find Baz in the library writing on a big whiteboard. So I make my way over to him. He insults me, of course, which is absolutely normal, but this time I tell him it's vicious, because, well, I have to admit I'd hoped for better this morning, given what we did last night. Unless I'm right about him not liking it, in which case he has leave to insult me all he wants because I'm a terrible person.

I try touching him—nothing too forward, just a hand on his stomach, because that's closest. Baz's eyes drift closed and he half-smiles with his lips closed, which I think is a good sign. Then he leans his head down toward mine, angling it so his nose won't collide with mine, at which point I'm pretty sure that Baz either likes what we've been doing or is very dedicated to convincing me that he likes what we've been doing. The second theory doesn't make much sense, though, so I'm getting close to just accepting the first one—

When the door swings open and one of the servants announces that the girls are here.

I'm pretty sure we're snogging, present tense.


	39. Like, Oh My God, Who Is He?

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

 **A/N: I'm really torn about whether Simon keeps his wings and tail or not, but this chapter wanted to be written, so.**

 **BAZ**

The first time I saw Snow with wings and a tail, I couldn't quite believe my eyes. He looked like a cartoon devil, and I couldn't imagine what kind of god or fate or power was playing a trick on us. But that's turning out to be nothing to how it is to see him _without_ wings and a tail.

It's like this: after a year and a half of having his magickal appendages, and after completing his first year of uni, Snow decides he wants his wings and tail removed. I think I make the decision harder, honestly, since I enjoy playing with his tail and stroking his wings. But even I can see that Snow's decision makes sense. Bunce or I have to hide Snow's extra appendages every morning, and sometimes the spells wear off. Besides, tucking everything in makes Snow's clothes fit funny, while leaving everything loose threatens to expose him if people somehow feel his wings or tail, like if they run into him from behind.

Even though it's a sensible decision, and also _his choice_ , Snow asks my permission to have his wings and tail removed, like I should have a say. I reply, "Do what you want, Snow. It's your body."

"Come on, I thought you were calling me Simon now," Snow whines, rather than reacting to the rest of what I said.

I huff. "Simon. You can make your own decisions. You don't need my permission."

Snow smiles when I say his name, but then he says, "But will you mind? I know you like my tail . . . and my wings . . ."

"I'll be fine. You get to do what you want to do with your body."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. " _Yes_."

So, when the time comes, I accompany him to Dr Wellbelove's office. Dr Wellbelove explains the procedure to both of us and then takes Snow back into the operating room to perform the actual surgery. The procedure takes hours, and I suppose I could leave and come back, but that would feel like I was betraying Snow, so instead I stay and read the entirety of _Wuthering Heights_. I see more of myself in Heathcliff than I want to, though I figure Snow would cast me as Linton on account of my bloodline. Merlin and Morgana, Snow would probably think of himself as Heathcliff and me as Linton. Wellbelove is nothing like Catherine, though.

I lean back so that my head rests against the wall behind my chair and remind myself that people in real life don't need to correspond with people in books. We get to be ourselves, without the comparisons.

I've been scrolling through my BBC app for a while by the time Dr Wellbelove pokes his head out of the operating room. "He's waking up now, Basil," the doctor says.

I hold Snow's hand as he blinks himself into consciousness. "Hey, Baz," he whispers, slurring the greeting a bit, once his eyes are fully open.

"Hey, Simon," I reply, using his first name without being asked for once.

We don't say much then, mostly because Snow is too drugged to really hold a conversation. But when he's released from Dr Wellbelove's care a few days later and I wake up next to him for the first time since the operation, I can't help but recoil in surprise before I remember what happened. It's the first time I've ever slept over at Simon's and not woken up with a faceful of wing or a tail curled around me, and, for a moment, I wonder, _Oh my God, who did I just share a bed with?_

Then Simon opens his blue eyes and I remember exactly what happened, and I know it's nothing to worry about.


	40. I Get Drunk on Jealousy

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

I get drunk on anything, really. Blood, alcohol, jealousy, pick your poison. I'm not sure why I can get literally drunk—I don't think I have a bloodstream for the alcohol to get absorbed into—but then there's lots that I don't know about my condition. Like how immortal I am, or why I can still cry.

I've been drunk on jealousy a lot lately, though. Snow and Wellbelove's relationship isn't exactly _new_ , but I think something must have happened when Snow stayed with the Wellbeloves over Christmas break. He's more comfortable with her now, less bashful, and altogether bolder, which has not-so-fun side effects (for me), like making him brave enough and rude enough to make out with her in random corners of the school where unsuspecting passersby can run into them.

Okay, maybe I've run into them more than was strictly inevitable. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment. And every time I see them, I feel this mix of pain, jealousy, and arousal that I can't quite tamp down. Because every time I see Snow's lips working against Wellbelove's, I imagine his lips working against mine. I can't help it.

I blame my detours on the jealous drunkenness that living with Snow entails these days. He comes back to the room later every evening than he used to, and he smells like Agatha's perfume most nights. He even whispers her name in his sleep sometimes, and I—plagued with nightmares as I am—am awake to hear it. I thought I was losing my mind before, just because I loved him, but this infinitely more painful.

I'm pretty sure most of the school thinks I'm in love with Wellbelove. I'm okay with that, because it means I don't have to come out, and I can obsess over the Snow/Wellbelove pairing in public. (Which I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to keep myself from doing, even if I tried. I have mountains of self-control, but that would require _continents_ of it. I'm burning through all my usual self-control reserves just trying to keep from either kissing Snow or punching him. Or biting him. That one's the hardest to avoid, particularly since we have to sleep in the same room.)

Dev and Niall can tell that something's up. I think both of them want to get with Wellbelove, so they think I'm a rival, but neither of them is as upset about Snow and Wellbelove as I am. I have no interest in telling my friends the truth—about anything, really: being a vampire, being gay, loving Snow, any of it. And honestly, this makes me jealous of Snow and Bunce. My friends are minions I don't really respect. Snow has a best friend who would die for him.

And he has a girlfriend.


	41. But You'll Come Back Each Time You Leave

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **A/N: This scene is NOT part of my headcanon, but I needed something that fit the lyric. Also, I know this is the first time I've had Baz use first names in narration. It's set further in the future than any of the other chapters, so I figure at some point Baz got comfortable with first names, though it took a few years.**

 **BAZ**

I want to swear to Simon that I'll never leave him, but I don't think he'd believe me at this point. I don't blame him.

I should leave Simon and let him find someone better, rather than keeping him shackled to me, but I don't think I'm strong enough. I do blame myself.

Thrice I've left, and thrice he's waited patiently for me to come back. The first time Penny was angry with me, and the second time she was furious, but the third time she was, if anything, resigned. Only the first time was she even in England, but I got her text messages and emails and all the rest of it loud and clear across the Atlantic.

Simon, meanwhile . . . The first time he was a wreck, the second time he was basically a human blast radius, and the third time he just seemed . . . hollow. I hated myself as soon as I saw him, almost strongly enough to turn right around and leave again, but then he surged forward and clung to me and started whispering in my ear that he never wanted me to leave again, and I caved.

Penny says the lesson from all this is simple: my absence harms Simon. Even though my presence isn't _always_ good for him—we certainly fight—my absence is unequivocally bad, and I should stay. I contend that the lesson isn't that simple. Maybe the strong withdrawal symptoms make me like a potent drug, to be avoided at all costs.

I haven't told either Simon or Penny the real reason I keep leaving. It's not just the generic he-could-do-better, though of course there's some of that. It's also about the fact that he's going to age, and I'm . . . not. When I hit my peak, which I've probably already done since we're all in our late twenties by now, I'm going to stop physically maturing. Snow is going to go silver and creaky and, though I'm already grey, I'm going to stay spry and healthy. I don't want to put either of us through that.

But ultimately Simon's life is a story, and I can't fight the narrative. We wound up together because we were meant to be together. I think I've ruined our chances of marriage—Penny has let slip that Simon was on the verge of proposing before I left for the second time—so it seems we'll live out the rest of Simon's life in an uneasy domestic partnership, neither of us really sure whether the arrangement has an expiration date.

And I'd still take that over separation any day. Amazingly, so would Simon.

 **A/N: Idea creds to willowscribe for the fic "Not Wisely, but Too Well," which deals with the ageing question.**


	42. I'm a Nightmare Dressed Like a Daydream

**Disclaimer: The usual.**

 **BAZ**

I'm a nightmare. I think literally. Normal people have nightmares about vampires, right? Merlin, _I_ have nightmares about vampires, about the day they killed my mother. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm a nightmare. I should be, at least. If people aren't having nightmares about vampires, it's probably because they don't know we're real. I can't imagine someone knowing that there were grey humanoids walking around London wanting to suck everyone's blood and just _not caring_.

The thing I like about Snow, though—one of the million things I like about Snow—is that we match. He's a nightmare, too. He was the greatest known threat to magic, all those years, siphoning magic out of all sorts of unsuspecting places every time he went off. He separated from an echo of himself who forever remained ten years old and more evil than Snow could possibly fathom. Talk about the stuff of nightmares.

Snow doesn't look like a nightmare, though. Neither of us does, I suppose. Snow is gorgeous, with bronze curls and blue eyes and absolutely radiant golden skin. (Plus moles that drive me mad.) And I've come to accept that I'm decent-looking as well, with dark hair that I work very hard to keep luscious and flawless skin that I'm pretty sure I should attribute to my vampirism (acne is caused by bacteria, after all, and my immunity to disease extends to my skin, I think).

Plus I know how to dress. I'm gradually teaching Snow, as well. Jeans that are just the right amount fitted, jumpers that are warm without being overly bulky, T-shirts that show the muscle underneath, suits that are just this side of snug. He's learning—slowly, but learning nonetheless. We may be nightmares, but we're dressed like daydreams.

None of this can defend us from our literal nightmares, of course, of which we have many. We always did—I've spent half my life waking up to the sound of Snow panting, or sobbing, or going off—but it's felt different, this past year, to wake up with him panicking _in my arms_ , and to sometimes wake up panicking in his. It almost always makes me feel safe to feel his arms around me, whether I dreamt about fighting the Humdrum or getting killed by the Mage or being disowned by my father or witnessing my mother's death. I hope I make Snow feel the same way, when he dreams about the Humdrum or the Mage or about getting killed—or watching Bunce or Wellbelove or me be killed—by any of the dozens of monsters he's fought over the years.

But if I have to live through as many nightmares as I have to live through, I at least want Simon Snow to be my waking daydream. And luckily he's let me live out hundreds of fantasies since he first kissed me the Christmas before last.


	43. Boys Only Want Love If It's Torture

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

 **BAZ**

It's absolute torture living with Simon Snow. It always was, honestly. There was never a time when this rooming arrangement was easy. He was everything I hadn't been raised to expect: oblivious (when messages in my family were always implicit, and social survival was a matter of picking up on the smallest of cues starting basically from the cradle), verbally challenged (when speaking was one of the foremost skills in both the Grimm and Pitch families, right up there with summoning fire), poor (when we had money coming out of our ears, as did everyone we knew), ratty (when looking refined was a prized family skill and one of my favourite things about myself), and bad at magic (when creating fire was as easy as breathing and wandwork had always been second nature to me).

But, if things started bad, they've just gotten worse. Because last year I had to go and fall for Snow, which is just about the worst thing that could possibly have happened to me. I suppose I should have seen it coming, since I've always known I'm gay and everything in my life that can go wrong does go wrong. To add insult to injury, just when I worked out that I fancied Snow, he had to go and start dating Wellbelove, whom my father has been bothering me to date since we were entirely too young for that kind of consideration.

I don't know what he sees in her. I don't know what anyone sees in her. I don't know what anyone sees in girls, writ large. Their lips are too soft and their hands are too small, and wouldn't their chests get in the way? I don't understand how anyone could look at a boy—particularly a boy like Simon Snow, with his bronze curls and gold skin and blue eyes—and think, _Nah, I'd rather kiss someone curvier._ It simply does not compute.

I don't wish I weren't gay, exactly, but I do wish that's what I thought when I look at Snow. Because then I'd be spared the experience of imagining his lips against mine every time I look at him, envisioning the feel of his arms around me every time I listen to his breathing at night, watching closely in exquisite pain as he gets dressed every morning, and inevitably picturing him killing me once I kissed him or let my feelings be known.

But sometimes I wonder if I like it like this, longing for what I can't have. Being the moth to his flame. Being a moth _living_ with a flame. Because I'm disturbed. Ask anyone.


	44. Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

**Disclaimer: One last time, not mine.**

 **A/N: This is it, folks! The last chapter! Hope you've enjoyed the ride. My internship is over and school's about to start back up again, so you can expect a lot less material from me in the near future.**

 **BAZ**

It should have been over before it began. We were just in a vampire lair, for Merlin's sake. Snow knows who I am, _what_ I am. He shouldn't have wanted to kiss me. He shouldn't have wanted anything to do with me. He should have let me die in the fire I started.

Would I have died? Would I have let it happen? I don't have a death wish, though it would make everything much easier if I did. But instead of running away or helping me destroy myself, Snow stayed, and he rescued me. With a kiss.

What can I do but warn him? I tell him to wear his cross. I admit to being a vampire. That's as far as I get in the evening, before he draws me in and I can't think straight anymore. (Can I ever think straight? Ha.) But I try again in the morning—try to push him away, try not to affirm that we're snogging. And then he rubs my stomach and it's all over for me, again.

I wonder when I can be done with this. Warning him that I'm not good for him, that we shouldn't be together. Will he ever convince me to stop? Will I ever be able to stop on my own, to decide that, dim though he may be, Snow actually has enough information and emotional and intellectual wherewithal to make an informed, genuinely consensual decision about me? Or will I always worry that I inadvertently conned him into this with the fire?

I don't have an answer right now. Maybe right now I don't need one. Maybe I can keep accepting his kisses for just a little while longer without feeling guilty. I did try to warn him, after all. He can never say I didn't do that.

It's the night before I go back to Watford, and, under the guise of staying with Fiona, I'm at the Bunces', where Snow and Bunce are under house arrest. I snuck in around 10 p.m. and scared the living daylights out of Snow. Only once I arrived did it occur to me that I should have texted Snow ahead of time.

I'm going to sleep terribly if we share Premal's twin bed, which seems to be the only option, but I'm happy to sleep terribly if it means sharing a bed with Snow.

"Snow?" I whisper as we're snuggled up together, nearly asleep.

"Mmm?"

"You know you shouldn't date me, right? Because I'm a vampire?"

I was the little spoon, but now Snow is wrenching on my shoulders trying to get me to turn around. I oblige him and find us face-to-face, and oh, his eyes. Even in the dark they threaten to drown me.

"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch," Snow whispers back. "I should absolutely date you. Because you are brave, and loyal, and brilliant, and handsome, and witty, and everything else I could ever want. Who cares that you're a vampire?"

" _You_ should care! What if I—"

Snow cuts me off with a kiss. When we break apart, he says, "No, I shouldn't, because you won't." Then he nuzzles his head into my chest and says, "Good night," and that is the end of that.


End file.
